


Sticks and Stones

by Atra Materia (TheDarkMaterial)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, comedic deathfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-23
Updated: 2006-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMaterial/pseuds/Atra%20Materia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred and George market their new game - with disastrous results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sticks and Stones

It was all Fred and George's fault.

Fred and George, of course, swore that it was Mrs Norris' fault; but according to Filch, Mrs Norris was a cat, and had simply been doing what came naturally _to_ cats. Professor McGonagall, unfortunately, agreed - as did Severus Snape, Pansy Parkinson, and Hagrid. Lucius Malfoy blamed Dumbledore for allowing cats - and Fred and George - to run wild over Hogwart's in the first place.

It all started Sunday morning, when Fred - or was it George? - dropped into the chair beside Harry and leaned over to whisper conspiratorially -

"Wizard marbles, Harry." He gave the pouch in his left hand a shake. It was blazing blue and speckled with orange, and rattled suspiciously. "You'll never lose them - never lose a match, either! They just keep rolling round until they hit something."

"If they keep rolling, how do you keep from losing them?" Hermione peered up from _An Arithmantical Journey_ and arched a brow. "Wouldn't they just roll away?"

"That's the beauty of them, Ninny!" George - or was it Fred? - slung his leg over the coffee table as if it was a broom. "When you buy a bag, we'll enchant them to know who they belong to! If they don't hit another marble - or the wall - eventually, they'll get bored and roll back to your hand!"

"I wish someone'd thought to do that with my Remembrall," Neville remarked mournfully. He'd entered on the heels of the twins, but the look on his face had suggested that he'd been waiting outside for some time. ("It's _'Architeuthis dux',_ Neville," Hermione had said.)

"Well, here's your chance to make up for it!" Grinning like a madman, George slung his other leg over the table and slid off the opposite side. The bag in his hands - puke-green and dotted with purple leopard spots - sailed through the air and landed in Neville's lap with a clattering whump. "Just ten Sickles, and you'll have your very own bag of magic marbles!"

Neville's face twisted; his lip caught between his teeth as if the weight of some great decision was upon him. For several moments, he sat in silence; studying the garish sack. At last, he dug into his pocket and produced a handful of grimy coins.

"...is that ten?" George leaned over, squinting at the silver disks.

"It's seven," Neville replied gloomily. "But you can have my pudding at dinner."

"Pudding, eh?" The lanky redhead pursed his lips. "What do you think, Fred? Seven Sickles and an extra helping of pudding?"

"I'd take him up on it, George." The other twin nodded sagely. "You know how hard it's been to get the house elves - don't look at me that way, Ninny - to bring anything up for us since we accidentally sent Bungo through that Floo to - well, you know."

"...point." George mirrored the nod and fell silent; presumably in memory of poor Bungo. Once the moment had passed, he straightened; sweeping the coins from Neville's hand. "You drive a hard bargain, Neville, but it looks like we have a deal!" With a wink, he turned to saunter back to the table; which creaked in protest of his plunking atop it. "Enjoy your balls."

"Thanks, I think." Neville scratched his head, still peering at the sack. "I'm gonna go find Colin and see how they work."

"You shouldn't take advantage of people like that," Hermione pointed out once the echo of footsteps had faded into the hall.

"...take advantage? Us? Never!" Fred kicked his feet up and over the arm of the chair; sprawling comfortably within it. "Neville's got something he can't lose even if he forgets he has it, and we've got an extra seven Sickles and a serving of Tobble's best! Everybody wins!"

"Except whoever Neville's playing against," George added.

"Right." Fred nodded, and let his head drop off the other arm. A period of studying the ceiling passed. "Say, George?"

"Say, Fred?"

"Did you remember to put that recognition spell on Neville's balls?"

Silence; followed by a sheepish admission of, "I guess he's not the only one who needs a Remembrall."

"Eh, I'll take care of it later." Fred struggled to uncross his eyes, which were becoming very affected by the amount of blood rushing to his head. "How much trouble can he get into before dinner, anyway?"

"Well, it's not like he's _you._" Harry rubbed at his forehead - though for once, it wasn't his scar that hurt.

"My point exactly! How much trouble can Neville possibly get into before dinner?"

***

It was Gregory Goyle who discovered just how much trouble Neville could, in fact, get into before dinner. Coming past the library on his way to that very thing, he was faced with the sight of Neville Longbottom, Colin Creevy, and a chalk circle full of colourful glass orbs smack in the middle of the floor. This, in turn, presented him with the sort of choice he hated to make: Put off pudding, or put off bullying the Gryffindor Gimps.

Well, they _were_ right in front of him. He'd have a bit of a go, then carry on his way. Two hippogryffs with one stone, and all.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" He planted his hands on his hips and sneered down at the pair of players.

"I believe it's a couple of ickle babies, Goyle." Crabbe finished as he lumbered up behind. "Playing their ickle baby games."

"Neville's winning," Colin pointed out; thumb poised to flick the next marble. "I ought to take a picture, but every time I look away, the marbles get rearranged. I can't figure out how; I don't think he's fast enough to be doing it himself."

"Oh, that's too bad," Goyle noted; in the sort of tone that suggested he didn't think it was that bad at all. "Perhaps we ought to give him some help, Crabbe? Help getting out of our way, I mean."

"You know, I do believe we should. We Slytherins have that awful reputation for thinking only of ourselves, and all. Perhaps it's time for that to change!" A foot lashed out; kicking through the center of the chalk ring. The marbles scattered; rolling across the floor and pinging off the walls, while Colin and Neville looked on in dismay. "I'm afraid we won't be able to stick around and help you clean that up. Dinner calls!"

"...and if there's one thing Crabbe and Goyle have never been called, it's late for dinner," Neville mumbled as he reached for one of the escaping orbs.

"What was that, Longbottom?" Goyle advanced menacingly - only to plant his foot on another of the marbles as it slipped from Colin's grasp. His eyes widened, his hands flailed, and he landed flat on his back; gasping for breath.

"...Goyle?" Crabbe paused and turned. "Are you okay?"

"I can't - I can't - I can't get up! Don't just stand there; do something!"

"I'm going to pound your face in, Longbottom!"

"Pound him later! Help me up!" Goyle wallowed about; not unlike a turtle trapped on the top side of its shell.

"I - I'll go find Madame Pomfrey!" The marbles forgotten, Neville leaped to his feet and darted away; followed by Colin's shouts of, "Wait for me, Neville; wait for me!"

***

As it turned out, the marbles had also forgotten Neville - but not that they were owned by _someone._ Nor would Goyle and his broken tailbone be the last victims of their enthusiastic search for that owner. On Monday morning, as she gossiped with Parvati on the way to Herbology, Lavender slipped on a green popeye, skidded for several feet on the rug, and crashed into the wall; requiring a number of spells to repair her black eyes and broken nose. Come noon on Tuesday, Professor Flitwick crunched a pink and purple onionskin beneath his heel. Luckily, he was able to catch the curtain on the way down, but the skin on his fingers suffered the consequences nonetheless - as did the curtain, which he was trapped beneath for some three hours before his anxious students thought to send out a search party. And by Wednesday afternoon, Mrs Norris had discovered that the glassy objects were great fun to chase, and was eagerly pursuing an oxblood toward the dungeons.

"I had no idea that mangy moggy could move that fast." Ron blinked owlishly as the aging feline scampered past.

"Fred and George ought to be pleased that anyone's still interested in their lost marbles, even if it's just a cat," Harry noted. Ever since the rash of injuries had been traced back to another of their malfunctioning products, sales had dropped dramatically. This, of course, only encouraged the two to come up with even more absurd and potentially-harmful prototypes in the hopes of reclaiming their customer base.

"I wonder if they'd give me a finder's fee?" The younger Weasley pursed his lips thoughtfully; a fiery brow lofting.

"For what?" Harry began. "The marbles, or -"

Whatever suggestion would have followed was forever lost in a sudden, startled cry and a shrill yowl; both of which seemed to come from the narrow stairwell leading down to Potions. An instant later, there was an echoing crash. Silence reigned for but a matter of seconds; after which a terrified scream resulted in an army of hurrying footsteps.

By the time Harry and Ron arrived at the top of the staircase, a crowd had already formed; blocking access to whatever grisly scene was causing such terrified murmurs and shocked gasps. They exchanged a look and shoved their way onward; the uneasy mass parting as if they could do no more than weakly make way for those more string-hearted than they.

At the bottom of the steps, Pansy Parkinson stood, white-faced, over the crumpled body of Draco Malfoy; whose neck was bent at a horribly unnatural angle and whose eyes, marble-like, stared glassily at the moldy ceiling. Cowering in the corner was Mrs Norris, her tail so bristled as to resemble a toilet-brush, and rolling on down the hall, as if it had neither a care in the world nor a clue what havoc it had wreaked, was the offending gamepiece over which the young prince had presumably tripped.

Neville was inconsolable; though most agreed he couldn't be blamed. It was true, he should have known better than to buy anything from Fred and George until it had been tested and proven harmless at least fifteen times - and even then, caution was advisable - but those who were fond of him said he was simply a boy who hated to disappoint a friend, and those who weren't said he was simply a stupid boy.

No, it was Fred and George's fault for marketing such a dangerous toy to begin with.

"But it was Mrs Norris who knocked it down the stairs!" Fred protested.

"And Crabbe and Goyle who sent them off in the first place!" George added. "If they hadn't needed to pick on someone not their own size, the Weasley Wizard Marbles would have been perfectly safe. Neville was doing just fine with them until those two oafs came along."

"I'm certain those boys feel bad enough, having lost their friend." Professor McGonagall's voice shook with barely-constrained anger. "There's no need to add to it the agony of believing they may have been the cause."

("The only thing Crabbe and Goyle are sad about," Hermione said later, "is that they didn't get a chance to rifle through Draco's drawers before the house-elves packed them up.")

"And I'll thank you not to accuse my Mrs Norris of your misdeeds," Filch growled; a gnarled hand stroking between the ears of the feline in question. "Cats chase things. It's what they do. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if you troublemakers had planned this in the hopes of getting Dumbledore to send us away - well, I'll tell you something; it'll never happen! You'll be the ones taking the carriage out, mark my words."

And so it was that on Thursday night, Harry, Hermione, and Ron returned to Gryffindor tower to find Fred and George sitting, shrouded in gloom, in the room to which they'd been confined since the incident; waiting for Dumbledore to decide their fate.

"We'll never sell another bag now, Fred," George grumbled; chin in his hands and elbows on his knees.

"Or anything else, I'll wager," Fred replied; arms on the table and head in his arms. "Not a Canary Cream, not a Wobblin' Wand, not a single Headless Hat."

Hermione stared, aghast.

"You two are about to be expelled, and you're worried about whether or not you'll be able to sell the rest of your stock?"

"Well, we'd always planned on falling back on our jokes if school didn't work out, Ninny." George slumped over, mimicking - intentionally or not - his brother's pose. "Now what are we going to do?"

Fred pursed his lips and, suddenly, picked up his head.

"By George, George, I think I've got it! We'll put a great yellow warning sign on the marble bags, like they've got on roads across the pond! 'Beware of rolling marbles,' it'll say; with a picture of a stick man sliding to his death."

"...that's brilliant, Fred!" The other twin slapped the table as he sat up himself. "Put the liability straight on the customer, where it belongs! Let _them_ deal with the expulsions and lawsuits! They can't say we didn't warn them!"

Had Hermione's arms not been full of books, she no doubt would have flung up her hands. As it was, she simply shook her head and wandered away. Some days, there was no use trying with those two.

"I'm gonna...go...see how Neville's doing," Ron mumbled uncomfortably. Sure, their mother had always said it was all fun and games until someone lost an eye; but who'd ever have believed it would actually happen? She couldn't probe her children for information they didn't have, however - effectively, anyway - and at the moment, Ron felt it was best not to have any information on the further plans of Fred and George.

"Wait, take this to him, wouldja?"

Alarmed, Ron flung up his own hands just in time to catch the envelope tossed his way by George. He eyed it suspiciously, then gave it a shake. It rattled. He took to eyeing the twins instead.

"It's a packet of Singin' Sympathy Seeds. Perfectly safe," Fred assured him. "Pop 'em in a pot, add a little water, and in no time, they're serenading you out of whatever miserable mood you're in! I figure Neville needs them more than we need the Knuts."

"...great," Ron said flatly; shoving the seeds in his pocket. Neville probably needed more Weasley-brand entertainment like Draco needed a room above the ground. Maybe he'd flush them down the loo. Myrtle would probably get a kick out of them.

"Not going to run away, Harry?" Fred remarked once Ron was gone.

"Well, I suppose it makes sense that he's the only one not scared of us." George flumped the top half of his body back onto the table. "We _are_ apparently the new You-Know-Whos, after all."

"Yea, er, say, about that." Harry slid into one of the empty seats. His hand, meanwhile, slid into his pocket; digging about until it came up with a palmful of silver coins. He leaned closer, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Could I get a bag of those marbles from you _before_ you put the new label on? I'll take my chances with the results."

Fred quirked a brow.

"Well, sure, Harry; but what are you going to do with them?"

"I think I'm going to challenge Voldemort to a game of marbles..."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Originally written for mariafiona's request in Fic on Demand @ LJ - she wanted a work based on the phrase 'Rocks fall, and everyone dies'


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